The Hero’s Sin (4 page)

“I know you risked your life to save a child you’d never seen before. I know you stopped a drunk from ruining your friend’s wedding.” She raised a hand when he would have protested. “And I know you’re in the Peace Corps.”

“Who told you that?”

“Mr. Pollock.”

Tension gripped Michael’s shoulders. “What else did he say?”

“He said you went through a rough patch as a kid, but you’d rebounded. He said you were a good man.”

“He didn’t give you any details about my past?”

“Not really.” She laid a hand against his cheek, her eyes asking him to trust her. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Here was his chance to do the right thing. If he admitted responsibility for Chrissy’s death, she’d never look at him with respect and admiration again. She thought he was a hero. A hero! It was almost laughable.

He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. All he managed to say was, “I’m not the man you think I am.”

“Then you don’t think highly enough of yourself,” she said and kissed him.

He had plenty of time to draw back, but he remained in place. Her breath was sweet, her lips soft, her hands at his nape electrifying. His pulse quickened, the passion he’d been keeping carefully in check soaring to the surface.

He should stop this. He’d spent only part of a night in her company, but making love with her wasn’t something he’d be able to take lightly.

She snaked her hands around his neck and pulled him closer, molding her body against his. She opened her mouth in a blatant invitation for him to deepen the kiss. He couldn’t refuse, his mouth mating with hers as he breathed in her scent.

His hands roamed over her hair, her back, her hips as he kissed her with as little control as the teenage boy he used to be. This was madness. Absolute madness. He hadn’t felt so out of control in years, not since he used to wait for Chrissy to sneak out of her house and come to him.

And look how that had turned out.

If Sara knew what had happened to Chrissy, she wouldn’t let him kiss her. She’d never again allow him to get close enough to touch her.

With a supreme act of will he broke off the kiss and pulled away from her, listening to the mingled sounds of their harsh breathing. She rested her head against his rapidly beating heart for a moment before stepping out of his arms. He felt immediately bereft.

She took a step toward a stairway that led to her home. To her bed. Her smile was shy. “Are you coming?”

He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the tempting picture she made. But he could still see her, as though her image was imprinted on the insides of his eyelids. He’d probably always be able to conjure up the way she looked right now.

He swallowed, tasting regret, and opened his eyes. “I already told you, Sara. I want to, but I can’t.”

Her smile faltered but didn’t disappear altogether. “Sure, you can. I already know you’re leaving in the morning. You won’t be taking advantage of me.”

“This isn’t you, Sara. Didn’t you just say you never have one-night stands?”

“Maybe it won’t be just one night. You have friends in town. Maybe you’ll come back to visit.”

He shook his head. “I won’t.”

“Then you won’t. I’m a big girl. I accept that. I know what I’m doing.”

Maybe so, but she didn’t know who she’d be doing it with.

Tell her about Chrissy,
a voice inside his head urged.

In the end, all he could do was present an argument she couldn’t refute.

“I’ll probably kick myself for this, but I can’t make love to you one day and disappear from your life the next.”

She bit her lip, her disappointment as clear as his regret. “I suppose I should thank you for that, but I don’t think I can.”

“I understand.” He stepped forward, laid four fingers against the smooth curve of her cheek. “Goodbye, Sara.”

He was halfway out the front door before her voice stopped him. “Michael.”

He turned around. She looked almost ethereally beautiful standing in the empty office in front of the antique desk she’d enthused about.

“Mr. Pollock was right,” she said. “You are a good man.”

He didn’t even have the courage to refute that.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
Michael trudged up the narrow flight of stairs that led from Aunt Felicia’s basement to the main part of the house, carrying a cardboard box of things he didn’t want.

Old clothes that would no longer fit. High-school report cards and test papers that didn’t do him proud. A tattered baseball glove he’d found lying discarded in a field when he was a teenager.

He’d already decided to donate the stuff to a thrift store. He didn’t need any reminders of Indigo Springs when he was gone.

The steps ended at a cheerfully decorated country kitchen that smelled of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. A plate of them sat on the counter near where Aunt Felicia stood between two rows of white cabinets. She hadn’t yet changed from the blue dress she’d worn to church.

“Did you find everything?” She wrung her hands, betraying her uneasiness. They’d barely exchanged two sentences when he’d arrived before he asked about his unwanted belongings and she directed him to the basement.

“I’ve got it all unless there’s more than one box.”

“No.” More hand-twisting. “Just the one.”

“Then I’ll get out of your way.”

“I made cookies after church,” she blurted, halting his progress. “Would you like one?”

It was well known his great-aunt liked to bake, but he was surprised she’d come straight home and made the cookies. Maybe she baked something every Sunday. The ultimate homemaker, she seemed to enjoy doing the things that made a house a home.

“Sure,” he said, because it seemed rude to refuse. He carried the box to the table and set it down before taking a cookie. He bit into it, the gooey, chocolate taste bringing back one of the rare pleasures of his childhood. “It’s good.”

She half smiled, the compliment seeming to please her. “How was the wedding?”

“Fine.” He finished off the rest of the cookie. “Johnny’s a lucky guy.”

“I heard…” She stopped, started again. “I heard you didn’t stay long.”

So the locals were already gossiping about him. He’d been up most of the night, second-guessing himself for not accepting Sara’s invitation. But he’d done the right thing. He couldn’t risk having somebody spot him leaving her house at an odd hour.

“I was at the wedding long enough.” He noticed the handle of a cabinet door was loose and thought about offering to fix it, then changed his mind, knowing that would only prolong a visit that was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. “I should get going.”

Aunt Felicia finally moved, only to cut off his exit from the kitchen. “Could you, um, look at something for me first?”

The loose handle?

“All right,” he said.

She picked up a manila envelope from her kitchen table and wordlessly handed it to him. The envelope was stamped Registered Mail and contained the return address of a local Indigo Springs bank. The first paper he pulled out was a Notice of Intent to Foreclose. A letter stated that Aunt Felicia was several months behind on her loan payments.

He flipped through the papers, trying to make sense of them. The house should be paid off. Aunt Felicia had inherited it when her parents died, and that had probably been twenty-five years ago.

His head jerked up. “It says here you took out a home equity loan.”

“I didn’t,” she said miserably. “Murray must have. I trusted he knew best about money matters. When he’d tell me to sign something, I would.”

Michael didn’t need to ask why Murray needed money. Even as a teenager, he’d been aware of her late husband’s gambling problem. And the bastard had put up Aunt Felicia’s house as collateral to finance it.

“I didn’t know about the loan until I got the letter,” Aunt Felicia explained. “It says the mortgage statements were going to a post office box.”

“You’ve been doing business at this bank for years. Why didn’t somebody tell you about this sooner?”

“They’re all strangers now. Even Quincy retired about a year ago.” She hugged herself. “I don’t know what to do. I didn’t even know Murray had a post office box.”

Michael swallowed his anger. Railing about her no-good late husband wouldn’t do Aunt Felicia any good. If he was going to help her, he needed to keep a level head. “When did you get this notice?”

“Friday,” she said.

“It says the entire mortgage is due in thirty days and if you don’t pay the amount, you’re in default. Can you cover it?”

She shook her head, her expression strained. “I used my savings for funeral expenses.”

“Didn’t Murray have life insurance?”

“He cashed in the policy before he died.” She blinked as though to keep from crying. “I’m going to lose my home, aren’t I?”

Michael wished he could pay off the money his aunt owed, but the Peace Corps didn’t pay a salary, just a stipend covering basic necessities. His meager bank
balance reflected that reality. But lose her house? Not if he could help it.

“You should go to the bank Monday morning and try to straighten this out,” he advised.

“I already called the bank.” She sniffled. “They said I waited too long for them to help me.”

“Then you can hire a lawyer who knows foreclosure law.” He dredged up the name of the attorney who’d once threatened to file a civil suit against him on behalf of Quincy Coleman. “Doesn’t Larry Donatelli go to your church?”

“He had a heart attack last year and moved to Florida,” his aunt said.

That explained why Sara Brenneman felt as though there was room in town for another lawyer.

Sara. Who’d told him at the wedding that she counted foreclosures as one of her specialties.

“I might know someone,” he said.

“Really?” His aunt’s blue eyes, so like his own, filled with hope that extinguished almost as soon as it appeared. “But lawyers are expensive.”

“I’ll help with the fees.” Michael could swing that much.

“Oh, no,” his aunt said instantly, her back straightening. “I can’t let you do that.”

“You don’t even know what she’ll charge. She hasn’t opened her practice yet so you’d probably get a good rate.” Michael could possibly get Sara to quote his aunt a low hourly fee and let him make up the difference. “It can’t hurt to ask.”

She worked her bottom lip, deep worry lines ap
pearing on her face and making her look older. “Will you call her for me?”

Too late he remembered Sara was having problems getting her phone service hooked up.

“Her phones aren’t working, and she mentioned she’d be out of town today,” he said, remembering her shopping trip. “I’ll show you where her office is and you can stop by Monday.”

He saw her throat constrict as she swallowed. “Will you come with me?”

Self-preservation told him to refuse, but in truth he’d decided to help her as soon as he’d seen the foreclosure notice. She hadn’t stopped her husband from kicking him out when he turned eighteen, but she had housed and fed him for almost three years. He couldn’t let her lose the house.

Even if it meant seeing Sara again and being reminded of what he couldn’t have.

“I’ll be by tomorrow morning at about nine.” He lifted the box from the table.

“Wait.” The relief on her face mixed with confusion. “Where are you going?”

“Back to the hotel.”

“You can stay here,” she said. “In your old room.”

Trying to figure out whether the invitation was sincere, he shifted the box in his arms. It wasn’t heavy, but it was an awkward shape. “I’ll still help you if I stay in a hotel tonight.”

“But it makes no sense for you to go to a hotel.”

Yet she hadn’t even opened the door to him Friday night. He didn’t voice his reservation, but it must have been obvious.

“I can explain about Friday night.” Her lower lip trembled. “I would have asked you in, but my bridge group was here.”

“I understand,” he said, his voice monotone.

“No, you don’t,” she said. “Jill Coleman’s in my group.”

Jill Coleman. Quincy’s wife. Chrissy’s mother.

“I thought it would be…” She stopped, searched for a word. “…awkward.”

He almost asked her awkward for whom, but he wouldn’t like the answer. He started to refuse her invitation, but the prospect of another night in a hotel depressed him.

Besides, there was plenty at his aunt’s house to keep him occupied. The loose handle on the cabinet door, for starters.

“I’ll put this box in the car and be back with my bag,” he said. “You don’t need to show me the room. I remember where it is.”

B
ECAUSE OF
a cardboard bakery box, Laurie Grieb decided returning to Indigo Springs might have been a mistake.

Not because of the apple turnover that was surely inside the small container, but because her resolve to refuse the delicious treat was wavering.

“C’mon, Laurie,” drawled the man holding out the dessert.
Like Adam extending the apple to Eve,
Laurie thought. It was after nine o’clock Monday morning and they were in the driveway of her mother’s house, which Laurie had moved back into a week ago. “We both know you love apple turnovers.”

He spoke in the same cajoling tone he’d once used to get her to make love with him when she was a teenager. Even though her resulting pregnancy had taught her how important it was to resist him, she grabbed the box.

“Okay, fine.” Her mouth watered at the sugary-sweet smell drifting up from the box. “But I’m only taking it because I skipped breakfast. It doesn’t mean I want you coming around, Kenny.”

“You’re welcome.” He managed to inject a touch of vulnerability in his slight smile.

She felt about two feet tall until she remembered the
reasons she couldn’t let Kenny Grieb back into her life. His dark sunglasses illustrated one of them. She guessed he wore them more to conceal bloodshot eyes than as a shield from the sun. The Kenny she’d known wasn’t so much a big drinker as a reckless one, but then irresponsibility was the theme of his life. Too bad she hadn’t figured that out until she’d married him.

“You’re hungover.”

“You’re right. Say the word, and I’ll stop drinking. I’ve done it for you before.”

She closed her eyes at the pain that pierced through her at his casual remark. He’d stopped drinking when she was pregnant. Though her pregnancy, the reason he’d married her, had only lasted four months.

“I don’t want you to do anything for me.” She kept her tone clipped so he wouldn’t know she was touched by his gesture. “I mean it, Kenny. Leave me alone. No more turnovers. No more flowers. No more phone calls.”

“Now is that any way to talk to your husband?”

“Ex-husband,” she corrected sharply. “We’ve been divorced for seven years.”

They’d gotten married straight out of high-school almost nine years ago and hadn’t even managed to make their marriage last two years.

“A mistake.” He’d gained weight since they’d been together, but not enough to keep him from looking good. His brown hair was the length she liked, long enough that the ends curled and clipped the collar of the green T-shirt he wore with khaki shorts. “I never should have let you go.”

“You married somebody else six months later!”

“Another mistake,” he said.

That, at least, was the truth. His second marriage, to a singer who performed on the Pennsylvania pub circuit, had lasted only weeks. She’d heard they’d eloped after a quick courtship. Kenny was good at giving women the rush.

“I don’t have time to stand out here listening to you, Kenny. I have things to do.” She walked past him to the compact car parked in the driveway, careful to avoid physical contact.

“Where you going?” he asked.

“I have a job interview at nine-thirty.” Now why had she told him that? She didn’t owe Kenny a single thing, not even answers. She gazed at him meaningfully over the roof of her car. “Speaking of jobs, don’t you have one?”

“Sure do,” he said. “But Annie said I could take the eleven o’clock trip today.”

Annie Sublinski owned Indigo River Rafters. So that was the reason he was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt with the Indigo River Rafters logo rather than in his mechanic’s overalls. “What happened to your job at the auto shop?”

He didn’t reply, providing her with the answer. “You got fired, didn’t you?”

“I decided to go in a different direction.”

She should show Kenny it didn’t make one iota of difference what he did by getting in her car and driving away. Instead she quirked an eyebrow. “Oh, really? And what direction is that?”

He seemed to be groping for an answer, but her patience had run out. She yanked open the car door. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”

“Wait,” he said. Like an idiot, she did. “What kind of job are you interviewing for?”

“A receptionist. At a law firm.” Why, oh why, had she answered him? Why couldn’t she just get in the car and drive away?

The space between his eyebrows narrowed. “Is the lawyer’s name Sara Brenneman?”

That stopped her from stepping into the car. “Yeah. Why? Do you know her?”

His mouth twisted. “She was at Johnny Pollock’s wedding with Michael Donahue.”

He snarled the last name, telling Laurie all she needed to know. The years hadn’t dulled his hatred for the man Chrissy Coleman had chosen over him.

“Goodbye, Kenny.” Laurie finally found the strength to get in the car and slam the door.

Kenny Grieb was an irresponsible lout, enough reason not to let him back into her life, but not the main reason.

No. The main reason she’d never again give Kenny her heart was that he hadn’t gotten his back from a dead woman.

“Y
OU NEVER
had any intention of hiring me!” The young woman Sara was interviewing for the position of office manager leaped to her feet, pointing an accusatory finger at Sara. “It’s because you heard I was pregnant, isn’t it?”

“Of course not,” Sara responded while she wondered what else could go wrong this morning.

First her alarm clock had blared just as Michael Donahue was pulling her into his arms, driving home
the frustrating fact they’d never get together outside her dreams.

Then her cell phone had rung with nothing but bad news. The phone company couldn’t send someone over until tomorrow, and the contractor she’d hired to paint the interior of her office couldn’t come at all.

And now this.

“Don’t you give me that!” the woman railed, her robust anger infusing her face with color and making her hair seem redder. “I know everybody in this shit hole of a town has been gossiping about me and Chase.”

By Chase, she must mean Chase Bradford, the best man at Johnny Pollock’s wedding. Now that the connection had been pointed out to her, Sara remembered where she’d seen the woman before—at the wedding, complaining to Chase that he was neglecting her. That was after Penelope had mentioned Chase’s girlfriend was pregnant.

But that was all the prior information Sara had had about Mandy Smith, the first of two women who’d responded to her ad for an office manager. Although Sara had specified applicants should e-mail her a résumé before their appointment, Mandy hadn’t provided one.

“You’re out of line, Ms. Smith,” Sara said, carefully keeping her own anger in check.

“Me? What about you? You’re the one who says I’m lying about being a receptionist!”

Sara gritted her teeth. “I said I needed to check your references.”

“Just forget it!” The woman was shouting now, although Sara wasn’t exactly sure why. “I wouldn’t work here if you begged me.”

She turned on her heel and stalked away, yanking open the door just as a brunette about Sara’s age was preparing to enter.

“If you’re here for an interview, don’t bother,” Mandy bit out. “You won’t like the boss.”

Mandy brushed past the new arrival, who looked at Sara and made a comical face. Dressed in a suit so red it assaulted the eyes, the woman had an open, friendly face and wildly curling brown hair. “Are you the boss I won’t like? You look okay to me but I could be missing something. You don’t have horns, do you?”

Sara’s heart rate, which had elevated during the confrontation, began to slow. This was a woman she could like. “They’re retractable.”

The woman’s laugh started low in her throat and rumbled outward, an infectious sound.

“I’m Laurie, your nine-thirty appointment.” She tried to smooth her hair down but it bounced back into place. “Sorry about the crazy hair. I wanted to make a good impression but the wind got hold of it and poof, there it curled.”

Sara couldn’t help but smile. She held out a hand. “Sara Brenneman.”

Laurie took it without hesitation, grasping her hand firmly and squeezing gently while meeting her eyes. When she let go, she said, “So. What was that woman’s deal?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m having my share of headaches today.” Sara gestured at the chipped, dingy walls around them. “I’m trying to have the office ready by next Monday, but the painter I hired canceled because he was double-booked.”

“Not a problem,” Laurie said. “I’ll get you some quotes from other painters. Should I get started on that?”

“Ye…” Sara stopped in mid agreement. “Wait a minute. I haven’t even interviewed you yet.”

Laurie’s dark eyes twinkled. “You can’t blame a girl for trying. You’d be making a mistake not to hire me. I’m likeable. I’m experienced. And I’m up for anything.”

“Then let’s get you interviewed.” Sara settled into the chair behind the unusually shaped reception desk while Laurie made a fuss over it. Without being told, Laurie pulled a chair up to the desk. Sara riffled through her briefcase until she found the completed application Laurie had e-mailed last week and which Sara hadn’t looked at since.

“Let’s see.” Sara blanched, blinked, then double-checked the name on the application. She’d read it right the first time: Laurie Grieb. She tried to sound as casual as possible when she asked, “Are you, by any chance, related to Kenny Grieb?”

“You know Kenny?”

“Not really.” Sara wasn’t sure how to raise the subject or even whether she should. Considering Kenny Grieb’s actions at the wedding, though, she needed all the details in order to decide whether to employ one of his relatives. “I, um, was with someone at a wedding Saturday who had a minor altercation with him.”

“You mean Kenny picked a fight?” Tension radiated off her, like a blast of heat from a wild fire. “Was he drunk?”

“Very.”

“Who was the fight with?” Laurie’s body stiffened, as though she was bracing herself for the answer.

Sara couldn’t think of a reason not to tell her. In fact, this could be her chance to find out why people at the wedding were whispering about his return. “Michael Donahue.”

“Damn it!” Laurie expelled a long breath. Before Sara could ask for specifics on Michael, Laurie pulled herself together and let loose with another spate of words. “I’m sorry. I didn’t answer your question yet. Kenny’s my ex-husband. It’s been over between us for a long time, pretty much since I miscarried the baby I was pregnant with when he married me.”

It didn’t seem over to Sara, a sentiment that must have shown on her face.

“It
is
over. It’s just that Kenny stopped by this morning to bring me an apple turnover, which he knows is a weakness of mine, and fed me a load of bull.” She stopped, clasped her hands together and rolled her eyes. “Listen to me, going on like this at a job interview. A job that, incidentally, I would be perfect for. If I can ever get you to believe I’m not a lunatic.”

Sara laughed, charmed by Laurie despite her connection to Kenny Grieb. But then, she’d been sold on Laurie since she’d asked if Sara had horns. “I don’t think you’re a lunatic. Free-spirited, yes, but not insane.”

“Good, because I’m a terrific office manager and I’m great on the phone. Just call Buddy—he was my boss at the brokerage firm where I worked in Atlanta—and he’ll vouch for me.”

“Why did you leave Atlanta?”

“I got homesick,” she said. “Also, I got to thinking my mom won’t be around forever. My dad died fifteen
years ago. Mom’s not even sixty but…” She trailed off suddenly. “I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”

“Not at all,” Sara said.

“Then how am I doing?”

Sara smiled. She couldn’t imagine Laurie blending in at the stuffy law practice Sara had left behind in Washington, D.C., but the woman with the crazy hair would fit perfectly into the new life Sara was building. “You’re hired.”

Laurie’s eyes bugged out. “Without checking references?”

In hindsight that didn’t seem like the smartest idea, even though Sara’s impulse was to trust her intuition. She settled on a compromise. “I should have said you’re hired if your references check out.”

“Me and my big mouth,” Laurie groused, then brightened. “They’ll check out. So should I start calling around to find a new painting contractor? Lots of people say they won’t give ballpark estimates over the phone, but I’ll talk them into it. Give me twenty minutes. Tops.”

It took fifteen, after which Sara sent Laurie home with a promise to call her although they both knew the decision had already been made.

When she was alone, Sara frowned over the estimates Laurie had gathered. She was missing only one, from a contractor Laurie hadn’t been able to talk into giving her one on the phone. Of the other quotes, the highest came from the only painter who could do the job this week. The lowest was twice as much as the original contractor had cited.

Sara would be tempted to do the job herself if it didn’t involve dry wall repair, because money was
quickly becoming an issue. She’d used most of her savings to buy the row house, which had come “as-is,” and then realized she’d underestimated start-up costs for a new business.

She was half tempted to go back to bed, pull the covers over her head to block out the sun and escape into her dream world with Michael Donahue.

Michael Donahue, whom she hadn’t asked Laurie about. No matter. He’d walked out of her life without a second glance and she needed to stop thinking about him.

She jerked her head up at the sound of the front door opening, expecting to see a man in paint-splattered overalls. Instead, clutching a manila envelope, a small woman who looked to be in her mid-seventies entered the office, followed by…

“Michael!” It was as if her thoughts had conjured him up. More than a head taller than the woman, he wore khaki pants and a loose-fitting short-sleeved shirt he’d probably bought to help him withstand the heat of Niger. Sunlight streamed into the office, illuminating the handsome planes and angles of his face and his fading bruise. “I thought you left town.”

“Hello, Sara.” His eyes fastened on her face and a memory of the kiss assailed her. “I had a change of plans.”